by H. B. Fyfe
faces.Truesdale's was pale.
"It's them!" he panted.
"Well," asked Donna, "what will it be?"
"Whaddya mean?" demanded Brecken, red-faced. "It'll be get dam' wellouta here, that's what it'll be!"
"Let's see you go," invited the girl coolly. "How well do _you_ pilot arocket?"
Brecken's jaw dropped. "Wh-wh-what? You crazy? Did you swallow all thatstuff the old man told you?" he sputtered.
"Why not?" asked Donna. "They didn't bring us all the way out here fornothing. Varret was scared. If it's that dangerous, somebody just has todo it--and we're here!"
"Not for long," said Brecken in an ugly tone. "Get hot on thosecontrols. You, Phillips! Run back to that rocket room and see thatthings work!"
"You try it," suggested the engineer quietly.
He would have preferred to avoid the trouble the girl had been stirringup, but he did not relish Brecken's tone. A few days off Luna, hereflected, and already he was getting independent.
"Listen," said Donna, encouraged in her defiance, "when I touch thosecontrols, we'll go right up and touch noses with them. You'd better havea torpedo ready!"
She turned to the banks of buttons and switches. Muffled thunder fromthe stern jets trembled through the hull as the men staggered.